Angels Don't Get Chicken Pox
by fleurofthecourt
Summary: "Why is Dean laughing?" "Because he's five," Sam says. Then when Cas stares uncomprehendingly, he elaborates, "Most people get this when they're kids so..." "An ancient being who has succumbed to such a thing is laughable," Cas says. Dean, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. [Dean/Cas].
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Set after the issues presented at the end of s10 have been resolved (which is to say, the Darkness is gone, and Cas is no longer cursed). Also, Dean/Cas is established prior to the beginning of the story.

* * *

The dull buzz of conversation washes over the dimly lit diner as the sun begins to rise over the sleepy coastal town, and Dean nudges Cas towards the far side of the corner booth.

Cas, uninterested in either food or conversation, lets him, before turning to look out the window. They're not far from the ocean here, and there's a flock of seagulls pecking at what appears to have once been a stack of waffles.

He ignores the strange, uncomfortable turn of his stomach as he watches, before looking back at Sam and Dean.

"Witches," Dean mutters into the menu. "Witches. It had to be witches. I frigging hate witches."

Sam looks up from his phone, briefly, raises his eyes, then looks back down, unimpressed that Dean's twenty minute rant from the car hasn't ended.

"I'm not overly fond myself," Cas says picking up his own menu, in gesture of ritual more than intention. Even toast sounds unappealing.

Sam glances up again before shooting him a sympathetic frown. "I guess you wouldn't be, after the whole thing with Rowena."

Cas sighs, unhappy with the reminder, even though he was really the one that brought it up, and Dean shifts closer to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "Don't worry, Wicked Witch of the West and her pals aren't getting their warty hands on you. Not as long as I've got a say in it."

Cas raises an eye. "If we knew what the witches in this town were up to, we would likely already be on our way back home."

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine," Dean huffs, before tossing his menu on the table and rubbing at his eyes and forehead, clearly frustrated that the pattern between the town's three mysterious deaths has not yet revealed itself. "Guess we'll let you get turned into a toad."

Cas winces before saying quietly,"Better a toad than a rabid dog. Likely, all I could hurt would be a fly."

Dean's face falls as Sam, immediately, insists, "You didn't know what you were doing."

"But I still hurt you," Cas says, reaching across the table and tracing a finger along the scar on his arm.

Sam flinches before shaking his head as Cas leans back into the vinyl and presses his entire hand against the still bruised marks on Dean's neck. "And I hurt Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, Dracula," Dean says pushing his hand back down to the table. "Let's not show these love bites to the whole diner."

Then, in a low whisper, he adds, "And you know I deserved that, right? After...after what I did to you."

"No," Cas says vehemently. "You did not. No one ever deserves to be hurt by the people they love."

"Yeah...not so sure about that," Dean says before ducking behind his hastily retrieved menu as the waitress pads over to their table. Cas sighs wearily before half heartedly looking back at his own.

Ultimately, much to Dean's apparent chagrin, he tells the waitress that he intends to share Dean's rather large breakfast platter in the hopes that something on it will return his appetite.

Nothing does.

While Dean chews through his third pecan pancake, Sam shoots him a concerned look. Cas shrugs. If something's wrong, he doesn't know what it is. "I'm not hungry."

Dean cocks an eye at him. "You turned down a PB & J last night. You feel okay?" He places a surprisingly cool hand to Cas' temple. He frowns. "Sam, we still got that thermometer?"

XXX

After a slight detour to the closest Gas N' Sip, they make it back to the motel, and Cas sits on the edge of their bed, with Dean's shoulder pressing against his and the thermometer tucked under his tongue, patiently waiting.

When it finally beeps, Dean frowns over the reading. "100.5. Okay. Definitely coming down with something, so..." Dean pushes him back towards the pillow, "you're staying here."

"I have a low grade fever," Cas protests, unable to understand how this will, in any way, prevent him from hunting, and defiantly moves towards the door. "I have completed missions while cursed and while dying. I'm certain I can manage hunting a witch with a minor human illness."

And, although this may have been a poor choice of argument, until he reaches the door, he believes it's a valid one.

Unfortunately, the severe headache he's had since they got back in the Impala has somehow magnified, and concentrating on what should be a fairly simple task has become frustratingly difficult.

He can't get the latch undone.

And he's seriously thinking about breaking the door down when Dean's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "You're losing a fight with a door, Cas. Come on. You're taking a sick day. Stay here, watch crappy telenovelas, and sleep off whatever you've got."

He sighs defeatedly before letting Dean lead him back to the bed. He then presses Tylenol and a glass of water into his hands. "And here. It'll help."

"I want to help," Cas says as he takes them.

Dean rolls his eyes before plopping Sam's laptop next to him. "You want to help, okay, find out why the witches went after these guys... or sleep because we've been at it for three days and come up with exactly nada."

Cas glares levelly before flipping it open.

Dean snickers before leaning down and cupping his chin in his hands and kissing him gently. "You and Sammy can bench me in a couple days, when I've got whatever you've got. How's that?"

Cas rolls his eyes. "The likelihood that you would agree to being 'benched' is slight. That was foolish."

Dean shrugs. "Maybe you aren't contagious. Aren't coughing or anything..." Dean pauses, considering, and frowns, "Your throat hurt?"

"No..." Cas says, perplexed. "Should it?"

"No...just...thought you had a cold..." He shrugs. "Maybe you do, and the fun hasn't started."

"Awesome."

He must get somewhere in the ballpark of Dean's sarcastic inflection, because this earns a good humored grin and a second foolish kiss.

XXX

Using the brief instructions that Sam has left him, Cas hacks into the Facebook account of the most recently deceased and looks for any kind of link to the others.

There are a couple issues with this, aside from his limited understanding of social networks.

First, focusing on the screen is definitely not improving his headache. He's nearly but, not quite, tempted to simply follow Dean's recommendation that he sleep.

Second, these men do not appear to have any of the connections he's been advised to look for - no shared friends, family, or work places.

And Sam informs him that their mutual interest in CSI and The Dark Knight is unlikely to be relevant.

It takes nearly an hour of fruitless searching to realize that the men appear to all have children, or, more accurately, teenagers, a few years younger than Claire. At least, he thinks that's the case. Human ages can be difficult for him to discern.

He texts all of this to Sam before unintentionally dropping his phone on the floor and subsequently slumping over the laptop, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

XXX

A few hours later, a strange and unsettling sensation spreading across his torso jolts him awake.

It itches.

Everywhere.

He pulls his t-shirt away from his skin and winces.

There are dozens of angry little red spots forming all across his abdomen.

He's barely through processing this when the door creaks on its hinges. Dean's voice carries through the half opened door, "Cas...hey, you awake? You weren't answering your..."

Dean stops mid-sentence when he catches sight of him sitting on the bed, with his shirt pulled up, staring at his chest, and does a double take. Then he stares and stares, apparently at a complete loss for words.

Cas meets his eyes before saying gravely, "I don't think I have a cold."

Contrary to any expected reaction, Dean doubles over laughing, only coming up for breath when Sam comes up behind him. "Sammy...Cas...Cas has chickenpox."

"He...really?" Sam asks as he glances to Cas. He chuckles lightly himself before sitting down next to him, looking over his spots. "Okay, yeah. That's definitely what this looks like...do those itch? Like a lot?"

"Yes. It's rather uncomfortable," Cas says. "Why is Dean laughing?"

"Because he's five," Sam says. Then when Cas stares uncomprehendingly, he elaborates, "Most people get this when they're kids so..."

"An ancient being who has succumbed to such a thing is laughable," Cas says. Dean, at least, has the decency to look sheepish.

"Yeah, so, when he snaps out of it, remind him that you're human and miserable."

Dean shrugs and rolls his eyes."Yeah, right, okay... so, Calamine. We're going to need a lot of it. And, Sam, we've got to move."

Sam looks puzzled, then concerned. "Oh. Oh yeah."

"From the motel?" Cas asks.

"Yeah, before they tell us to leave or put you under quarantine."

"Because this is contagious?" Cas asks.

"Yeah. We got kicked out of a place in Missouri when we were kids," Sam says.

"Is that allowed?" Cas asks.

"Don't know. Don't want to need to find out," Dean says. "But not sure where to go. It's a long drive back to the bunker."

"I'll be..." Cas starts, and Dean presses a finger to his lips.

"No, you won't 'be fine. You'll be miserable,'" Dean says. "Me and Sammy were miserable the whole drive from St. Louis to Bobby's, and we were 4 and 8. It's worse when you're older. We'll find somewhere close."


	2. Chapter 2

"Cas, come on. Know you're tired, but gonna need you to stay with me here," Dean's voice wavers in and out, and Cas tries to hold his eyes open.

It's a challenge.

He remembers, vaguely, that, about an hour into their drive, Sam had noticed him scratching and fidgeting in a completely vain attempt to get comfortable and encouraged him to take some Benadryl. It must have been very effective because, although his impulse to scratch is far less urgent now, he's having a lot of trouble focusing.

Dean still, somehow, manages to drag him out of the car and pull him upright before slinging his arm around his shoulder. He blinks blearily in the pale moonlight as Dean nudges his back. "You can pass out as soon as we're inside, but you gotta make it that far."

He nods uncertainly, and Dean squeezes his shoulder before taking a step forward. His shoes scuff on the gravel drive as he works to match Dean's stride.

He breathes in the cool evening air as it breezes lightly against his skin, making him shiver. He's overwhelmed by the scent of salt, surf, and sand that wafts over him. He listens carefully and hears the faint sound of the tide. "The ocean?"

Dean chuckles softly, rubbing at his shoulder. "Yeah, we're beachfront. It's kind of awesome." He shrugs before adding, "Shame you're kind of missing it."

Cas hums, more to indicate he's listening than agreeing, which isn't even really the case, as his head bobs drowsily towards his chin. Despite this, Dean drags him forward and continues to chatter about the merits of the Bed & Breakfast the whole way to their room.

Once there, he collapses face first into the mattress.

XXX

It's either very late or very early when he wakes up to a dimly lit room.

There's movement next to him, and he looks over to see Dean twitching slightly in his sleep, undoubtedly from a nightmare. He presses a hand to his shoulder to settle him, fighting the impulse to wake him up.

He reaches to the side of the bed, where he assumes Dean has tossed his duffel, and pulls out a clean pair of socks and pulls them on his hands. Sam and Dean had both suggested this earlier.

But, even with this new deterrent, it takes all of his self control not to start scratching again.

Snuffling in frustration, he shifts closer to Dean and wraps his arms around his torso, burying his face into Dean's shoulder.

A sock ends up in Dean's face, and Dean groans, shifts, takes one look at Cas, and says, "dude, no," before turning them around. His arms lock around Cas' chest before he takes Cas' sock clad hands in his own. He grunts drowsily before asking, "You good?"

Cas nods stiffly.

Dean snorts, not entirely convinced. "Sure about that?"

Cas slumps his shoulders in defeat. There's really not a lot of point in lying. "This itching is incessant, bordering on painful. There are sores in my mouth now and, not to make you uncomfortable, around my genitals."

"What, you saying now's not a good time to go down on each other?" Dean says. Cas cranes his head back to glare at him, and he adds, more seriously, "Literally in bed with you, Cas. Think I can handle a chat about what's going on down there."

Cas nods as he folds back into his pillow with a heavy sigh. "I don't believe I can sleep without taking more medication. I don't understand how you found this humorous."

Dean places the back of his hand to his forehead and nods. "Yeah, you need something. And, uh..." he seems to chew over something before saying, hesitantly, "makes you feel any better, laughed at Lisa too."

"She had this?" Cas asks, curious. He's surprised Dean's mentioning Lisa. He never has before.

"Yeah, she and Ben were both down for the count for, I don't know, a week. And Lisa, she was way worse than Ben. Kids? They can take this. Knocks everyone else on their ass. How I knew you'd never make it to the bunker like this," Dean says, then, when Cas huffs in protest, "Well, you would have, because you're a stubborn ass, but, trust me, this is better."

"I don't disagree," Cas says, frowning. Lisa and Ben. He hesitates himself, waiting until he's swallowed the medicine Dean dug out of his duffel to ask, "Do you miss them? Lisa and Ben?"

Dean huffs softly, pressing his face into Cas' shoulder. "Yeah, when they get in my head. Try not to let them in. But sometimes..."

Dean trails off so Cas offers, "They get in."

"Yeah. But, I don't know. It's been long enough that it hurts less when they do. Know they're better off now anyway, far away from me."

"That's not true," Cas says.

"Think you know better than anyone that it is," Dean says. "Used to think bad things followed me. Now I kinda think I am the bad thing."

"Dean," Cas says, hurt that Dean still thinks this of himself - the Mark is gone, "you are not a bad thing. You are the best man I've ever known."

"Yeah, well, you're in love with me, so I'm going to call that a biased opinion," Dean mutters as he wraps his hands back around Cas' middle. "And, uh... not like I haven't hurt you. I know the Mark's gone. I do. But, Cas, I dream about what I did to you..."

He draws away, his words almost indistinct, "Can't even look at my hands sometimes."

"I know that feeling. I've had that feeling..." Cas trails off. They're difficult memories for both of them, really, and he's having trouble putting his scattered thoughts together.

Likely best to leave this conversation for when he's more awake and less feverish.

He sinks deeper into his pillow and mumbles, "The medicine is...kicking in, I think."

"Yeah?" Dean's arms fold back around him, "Well, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, try to keep your socks to yourself."

Cas squints into the darkness, "There are bedbugs? Will the bed bugs make me itch more?"

Dean's head falls against his shoulder before his grip tightens around him. "Go to sleep, Cas."


End file.
